Clandestine (42 page)

“Here,” he said. “Drink this!”

Sarah sipped at the strong, sweet tea, while dread stalked her heart. “Rachel writes to me every week about the child,” she said desperately. “And sounds well enough in herself, but—from kindness, I think—she never mentions Guy. Of course, she knows what he's doing and where he's gone, and she's absolutely certain that he'll bring Claude d'Alleville back to England to marry her. Though if Guy and I are right in our fears, Guy cannot stop this marriage, Lord Jonathan, and I will not.”

“I understand,” he said quietly.

“But there's no word from Guy?”

“No, he's still somewhere in France. Meanwhile, Miracle and Ryder have left with our sisters for Wrendale in Derbyshire. They won't return for several weeks. The duke is in London, and my mother is still staying at Withycombe with Anne and me—”

Alarm surged through Sarah's veins. Her teacup clattered into the saucer. “So Rachel's at Wyldshay alone, and there's bad news from France? Monsieur d'Alleville repudiates both her and the child?”

“No, it's not that. I'm sorry. I stopped at Wyldshay this morning on quite other business, only to find that the letter Guy wrote in Devon was returned unopened two days ago. Your cousin was in the hall when it arrived. No one could prevent her seeing what was scrawled across the outside—”

“On the cover?”

His eyes were dark with compassion. “I regret that I cannot soften this, Sarah, but Claude d'Alleville is dead.”

Sarah pressed her palm to her mouth. An agonizing rush of tears burned her eyes and closed her throat. A faint, faraway screaming filled her ears, though she sat locked in an absolute silence.

Lord Jonathan sat beside her to put one arm about her shoulders.

“I'll do whatever I can,” he said gently. “This news is a terrible blow, I know, the death of all your hopes. I already sent for Anne and my mother, but I thought you'd also want to go to your cousin.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sarah wiped her eyes. “What's happening now?”

“She locked herself into her room and is refusing all food and drink. Betsy Davy is taking care of the child, but the windows are shuttered and barred, and the servants fear that Rachel may injure herself. I would have broken down the door, but I thought perhaps—”

“No, no, I'll come right away,” Sarah said.

“My carriage is waiting outside,” Lord Jonathan said. “I'll make your excuses to Miss Farcey.”

Sarah clung to his arm as he helped her to her feet. The room had disappeared as if it were filled with white fog.

“He'll get to the Dordogne too late,” she said. “As soon as he arrives at the chateau, he'll discover that Claude cannot save us. Then he'll begin to slowly die inside like a plant deprived of water. I don't know if he can…But, no, I must think of Rachel—”

“Hush!” he said softly. “The death of hope is very cruel, but Anne will help you as much as she can, and as soon as I've delivered you safely to Wyldshay I'll go after Guy myself.”

Sarah swallowed hard and the mist cleared. She no longer felt faint. She felt cold, as if winter's frost had already frozen her blood.

There was no way out now. She would grow old here in Bath, a spinster schoolmistress, who had once known a few glorious weeks in the company of the one extraordinary man to whom she had given her soul—and her body. While he would spend the rest of his days married to Rachel.

“I'm most obliged to you, my lord. I see now why Guy loves you like a brother.”

To her surprise Lord Jonathan Devoran St. George, long known to the fashionable world as Wild Lord Jack, took both of her hands and kissed them.

T
HE DOOR TO RACHEL'S BEDROOM WAS SOLID MAHOGANY.
Her gray eyes filled with concern, her pale hair dressed neatly, Anne—Lady Jonathan Devoran St. George—stood quietly to one side as Sarah knelt and called through the keyhole.

She thought she could hear muffled sobbing, but perhaps it was only the sweep of swallows' wings echoing down the chimneys.

In the end Sarah stood aside, her heart racked by dread, as two burly footmen broke down the door, shattering the lock. Anne pressed Sarah's hand briefly, then gathered the servants and took them all away.

The room smelled foul, the air stale with grief. Only one thin shaft of light leaked between the closed shutters. The bed hangings were drawn.

“Go away!” Rachel muttered. “Leave me alone!”

“It's only me,” Sarah said. “I'm so sorry, sweeting. Words can't even begin—”

“No! Go away!”

Sarah crossed to the windows, lifted the bars, and threw open the shutters. Yellow light flooded into the room. A litter of torn clothes and broken china lay strewn across the floor.

She walked to the bed and pulled the hangings aside.

Rachel's face was buried in the pillows, her hair a tangled mat.

Sarah swallowed her rush of grief, sat down, and put her arms about her cousin, lifting Rachel's unresisting head onto her lap. She smoothed the fine curls back from the hot forehead, and rocked her as if she were a small child.

“It's all right, Rachel. You're not alone anymore. I'm here now.”

“He's dead, Sarah! Claude's dead!”

Her tears burned dryly in her throat. “Yes, I know, dear. My heart breaks.”

“I cannot bear it. I don't want to live in a world without him. Everything's gone wrong.”

Sarah rocked steadily. “Hush, hush! Yes, I know it seems more than we can bear. Yet we must bear it, because there's Berry to think of and he needs his mama.”

Rachel looked up. Her face was blotched, the eyelids swollen. “Claude will never see his baby son now. He loved me, Sarah. I was the love of his life.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Of course, he loved you!”
And God please forgive me for the lie!

“He'd have come for me and Berry and taken us back to France as soon as he'd been able. So Guy went to fetch him, to tell him I was here waiting for him, but now—” Rachel sat up, her face a ruin of sorrow. “Is Berry all right?”

“He's with Betsy,” Sarah said. “She's wonderful with him, but you're his mama and he needs you. Do you think Claude would want you to grieve like this, if it meant that his little boy would be left crying for his mother?”

“No, no, and Guy will really have to be his father now,” Rachel said. “Or else Lord Moorefield will ruin me and take Berry away.”

“Yes, I know. Lord Jonathan has gone to France after Mr. Devoran to bring him back to you.”

Rachel wiped her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief. “I know Guy thinks he's in love with you, Sarah, but I can't lose Berry again. I can't!”

“So Guy will marry you at Christmas, just as he promised, and take you back to Birchbrook, where you and your baby will always be safe.”

Rachel flung herself back onto the pillows. “I can't help it,” she said. “I can't manage alone. I'm not as strong as you are, Sarah. When Mama and Papa died, my whole life came to an end, but I went to Grail Hall and did my very best. How was I to know that I'd meet Claude there and fall in love? But after I thought that my baby was dead, I didn't really care if I lived or died. It was like living in a fog—until that letter came from Mrs. Siskin. But now it's all ruined and I don't have anyone left—”

“Yes, we've lost so much, you and I,” Sarah said. “But you'll always have Berry, and Guy Devoran will stand by you forever.”

Her cousin looked up, her profile flawless, her eyebrows perfect over her bruised, swollen lids.

“But he doesn't love me, Sarah, and I've only ever really loved Claude.”

“So you'll both marry with your hearts torn open by loss. Yet if you treat each other with kindness, in the end you'll find happiness together. Perhaps there'll even be more children.”

Rachel grasped Sarah's arm. “I never meant to hurt you. Truly! I was waiting for Claude, and I—”

“It's all right,” Sarah said. “It's not your fault. You didn't intend this to happen. None of us did. But Guy will never be forsworn, and he'll love you and be true to you. If you allow it, in time you'll come to love him, too.”

“But what will you do?”

Sarah took Rachel's hand and tried to smile, though her heart lay burned to ashes.

“You know how I've always longed to see some different country? Well, I thought I might find a place at a school in Yorkshire, perhaps, or in Scotland.”

“But if you go so far away, I'll never see you!”

“Not often, perhaps, but we'll still write.” Sarah dredged real compassion from the depths of her heart—for where else could she find comfort now?—and smiled at the cousin she loved. “And you must promise in future to always write the whole truth.”

Rachel smiled back with heartbreaking bravado. “I should have told you about Claude when I met him. Yet when we first fell in love it was so overwhelming, and then when we…well, I knew you'd be so disappointed and shocked—”

“No, I understand,” Sarah said. “Now, it's time you let the maids set this room to rights. Come, let me order you a bath and get you a fresh dress. Berry needs you, and you can't let Guy return from such a sad journey to find his bride still weeping in her bed.”

S
ARAH
sank exhausted onto the window seat in her own room. Her eyes burned as she stared out at the remains of the sunset.

I have lost him forever!

Yet Rachel's one great love, Claude d'Alleville, was dead. Guy lived. So how could she allow herself to mourn such a selfish loss in the face of her cousin's far more terrible grief?

At least Rachel would never discover now that her Frenchman had never really loved her. She would never have to recognize that no man who loved a woman would ever have abandoned her for two years and left her to bear their baby alone.

Instead, Rachel would go to her grave believing that Berry's father had always adored her—though she would do so as Guy's wife.

For Sarah's sake and for the sake of his own honor, Guy would do his best to make Rachel happy. Whatever secret passion he might carry in his heart, he was far too fine to allow his heartbreak to damage his marriage.

So he would share his wife's bed and they would inevitably create children together. Eventually his past loves would fade into bittersweet memories—as would Rachel's. Then her letters would fade and eventually fail.

They would all want to avoid any visits.

And in the end, perhaps, Guy would find happiness.

So Sarah must make a new life. For Guy's sake, she would do her best to make it fruitful and fulfilled. Yet as the sinking sun finally plunged her room into shadow, she dropped her head onto both folded arms and wept.

T
HERE
was no word at all from Guy, and only one short, cryptic message from Jack, which Anne read out—
I'm close on Guy's heels. More later!
—buried in his private communication to his wife.

The duke was still in London, though the duchess had returned from Withycombe with Anne and her new baby girl. Miracle and Ryder had offered to come back from Derbyshire, also, but the duchess thought it best that they remain at Wrendale and keep her daughters well removed from the disaster that was unfolding at Wyldshay.

After talking to Sarah, she had written to Miss Farcey, who was most flattered to hear from Her Grace. If the duchess needed Mrs. Callaway at Wyldshay, Miss Farcey was honored to give her botany teacher an extended leave of absence, though she hoped she might be remembered in the future, should Her Grace ever wish to recommend a young ladies' academy to any of her friends.

Meanwhile, Rachel walked through the days like a ghost, incapable of either eating or sleeping, her face gaunt, clinging only to the knowledge that Guy was coming back to marry her. The golden curls became as dry and brittle as straw. Except for her sore, reddened eyelids, Rachel's once perfect skin was like chalk, though two bright crimson spots burned in each cheek.

Sarah choked down her own distress and quietly nursed her stricken cousin. Whenever she could spare the attention from her little baby, Anne assisted her, though the duchess kept her own counsel.

Yet Sarah lay dry-eyed in her room every night, her heart full of longing, her soul winging its message of love to Guy, while she bottled up her own heartache as if she imprisoned demons.

Meanwhile, Berry laughed and played, safe in the care of Betsy Davy. Even Rachel bravely hid from her baby the weight of the grief that had struck her down, finding the courage from somewhere to play happily with him and sing to him. Eventually, she began to talk about her marriage and tell her little son that he was going to have a new father.

Then Sarah knew the agony of discussing the wedding plans.

“Will Guy like me in blue?” Rachel asked one morning. “I've thought of getting a new blue gown with silver ribbons. Her Grace says I may order anything I like, and Claude always liked me in blue.”

Yet at the mention of her lover's name Rachel's eyes filled with new tears. Sarah helped her to a seat.

“Guy will take one look at you in any color you care to name and fall in love with you all over again,” she said. “Don't think that he didn't love you in Hampstead, Rachel, because I know that he did.”

Two tracks of moisture traced down Rachel's cheeks. “You know, you might be struck down by lightning for saying such things, Sarah. I enticed Guy into bed, because otherwise I thought he might not take care of me. Yet Claude—”

Rachel broke down into hysterical sobs, leaving Sarah holding her in both arms, while her own heart was racked by despair.

“Mrs. Callaway?”

Sarah looked up.

A footman stared across the room. “Her Grace requires me to inform you, ma'am, that a carriage is approaching the front entrance at the gallop.”

“Guy!”
Rachel leaped up, picked up her skirts in both hands, and ran off.

For the first time, Sarah's courage failed her absolutely. Her heart had lodged somewhere in her throat. She sat in stark fear staring blindly at the wall, while her heart thundered.

After a few moments Anne came into the room, her eyes clear and calm. She walked up to Sarah, took her hand, and sat quietly beside her.

“You should go down,” Sarah said at last. “If Guy's returned, then Lord Jonathan will be with him, and your baby might need—”

“She's sleeping,” Anne said. “And Jack will understand.”

Sarah smiled at her and forced herself to walk down with Anne into the Great Hall.

Rachel had already followed the duchess out into the courtyard, where two footmen had flung open the great oak doors. A commotion of horses and iron-shod wheels echoed into the castle as a carriage raced up and stopped.

Sarah clung to Anne's hand, but Rachel ran back inside, her face white.

“It's not him!” she said. “It's not Guy's carriage from France. It's Lady Moorefield!”

Anne's fingers closed on Sarah's, steadying her against her desperate rush of grief. Both of them sat down.

With immaculate self-control, the duchess walked back into the room, supporting the countess on her arm. She helped Lady Moorefield to a seat, then walked away to stand at the great fireplace.

The countess sat stiffly beneath a tapestry of St. George and glared defiantly at the duchess. Her face was swollen with bruises. A bloody cut stained one eyebrow. Another cut cracked her lower lip.

“This is what you wanted, isn't it? I've left him.”

A green fire burned in the duchess's bright gaze. “Then we offer you the sanctuary and protection of Wyldshay, Countess.”

Yet the doors to the courtyard still stood open. Another carriage clattered up. Someone was shouting.

Lady Moorefield cowered back in her seat as her husband strode into the room.

The earl stopped and glanced around, then laughed and slapped his thigh with a riding crop.

“The protection of Wyldshay, Duchess? The duke is not at home, I believe, and neither are your sons or your nephew? I see only five females and two of them weeping. I have every right in law to chastise my wife. Neither you, nor these protégés of yours, can stop me.”

Green flames blazed in the emerald eyes. “Several dozen of my menservants are within earshot, Moorefield,” the duchess said. “Since the countess is my guest, I advise you not to take another step.”